


For the First Time

by DrGaybelGideon



Category: Trouble in the Heights (2011)
Genre: A brief mention of murder, Drugs, F/M, Fucking asshole deserves his own trigger warning, Nevada, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrGaybelGideon/pseuds/DrGaybelGideon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 2AM gift/tribute to the brilliant Sackoflemon's Jonas fic of the same name!<br/>What happened to make Nevada Nevada.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the First Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sackoflemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sackoflemons/gifts).
  * Inspired by [For the First Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297411) by [sackoflemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sackoflemons/pseuds/sackoflemons). 



 

 

 

 

Nevada's life of crime starts- well, at birth. 15 inches long, 7lbs 1 ounce, a day or two late and screaming his tiny lungs out, which is exactly the same way he leaves most business meetings.

  
He was a short chubby baby. A short chubby child. A short chubby adult, although he imagines the loudness and the smirks and the noise add a few extra inches on top of his Cuban heels. (Doesn't stop him from fucking their mothers, he growls at his men whenever sidewards looks are cast at the long sleeved shirts he hasn't had tailored. Bastardos estúpidos altas.)

Being the short ass picked last in gym class wasn't particularly flattering. He imagines on smaller, more sensitive kids it might have been isolating, exclusionary, and if he had to hire an expert on childhood psychology he'd probably be able to flutter big sad eyes and convince them it was the reason he'd turned away from a perfectly loving home- one mother, one father, picket fence and a color TV when they could afford it, how fucking predictable- to a life of crime, a need to punish the society who'd pushed him away, perfectly reasonable.

But those boring gringo psychiatrists who try to justify gringo kids and their prom-rejection school shootings would be wrong.  
Nevada's just bored.

He's seven the first time he commits a crime. Not even a shitty tiny one like every other criminal, it's a gold watch from an elderly relative's hands at a christening. It's intentional and not-intentional, something to do just to relieve the fucking boredom of religious adults gathered around a bowl splashing water on a child. He doesn't consider it stealing at first, just wants to see if he can take it, wants to see if Aunt Adelita will spit out those disgusting false teeth with shock and wants to see if his parents will cover for him or call him out for it in front of everyone.  
They don't, of course, never do have never done, and in a move that makes him feel an odd clench of dissappointment, they don't even bother to catch him. In a second, more thrilling stomach flutter, he realises what he's done, spends five minutes clenching the skin-warmed metal in his pocket and wondering exactly which circle of hell he's going to for stealing something in church. The stained glass of his church's rose window was clear for Jesus' white robes, he remembers, because the sun was shining through it then as it dropped, gold fingers of flame snaking upwards towards the saviour's blissful face. Melting, yes he's going to hell for this, he's going to hell and he's burning there.

$75 stuffed in a shoebox under his mattress frittered slowly away on piragua and long summers late at the arcade help to fade that odd religious screech to the background radio static all lapsed Catholics become accustomed to ignoring.  
Guess ice really does put out fire, he reminisces at a McDonalds drive through years later, licking small cascades of ice cream off the side of the cone.

\--

They really should have yelled at him more as a kid, his 16th birthday proves to them all.  
He's got friends in high places now, literally, older ones who are more than happy to help him make the hop-skip and jump from booze to cigarettes and now narcotics, narcotics because narcotics is the hilariously fucking formal way his mother describes them when she looks into his eyes.  
"Nevada, are you on narcotics?" It's a weak little ask, one she doesn't want to know the answer to even though there's white on his nose and he's laughing like a fucking dental patient once the laughing gas hits with tears on his face.  
It's always like this, his mother's quiet thin lipped concern and his father's helpless silence that's only broken when something in his nose bursts and spatters the table in blood and wow, is it always that red and-

God he wants to see them snap.

It's always the same, always the fucking same she's quiet and he's pulling that constipated face and he's angry now, he wants to flip this fucking table with the same homemade cake as every year and see what happens, see if one of them will finally react to their 16 year old son wasted and furious because he wants it, he wants to see a sign of life beyond the stability  
Beyond the damn concern on his mother's face, the fucking acceptance, it's the acceptance that's killing him because he knows why, the little mantra that always played him off to sleep, that they'd waited so long to have him and tried so hard, and that obviously made him an angel, a fragile little eggshell they couldn't yell at because he was hard to conceive, that they'd accept whether he brought home girlfriends, boyfriends, a string of them so outrageously long they should be making him ashamed for it but no he's an angel he's an angel he's a fucking angel who can't concentrate on a board for five minutes without the words jumbling and wants to hurt and wants to burn and has done so in front of them before and-  
Is it always this hot?

He needs a shower. A cold one, which is a bad idea because the water is too cold.  
Fuck, Nevada promises himself with his fortieth minute of shivering. He'll stick to delivering coke from now on.

\--

He's been arrested before he touches his first breast, and he can't quite shake the memories of it when he's pulling the skin of her neck with his teeth.  
It was a horrible way to be arrested, thrown over a car hard enough to bruise his chin by an adrenaline-breathing officer he really should have resisted the urge to snark at, but it's funny for half a second to yell that he doesn't fuck pigs when the other man's pressed up behind him.  
It's still fucking funny years later.

It leads to him being thrown in one of the rougher holding cells.  
It's not fun, being a short Latino with a pretty face and a fantastic arse in an all men's prison.  
Nothing happens, he's in solitary, it's a petty little intimidation tactic by that same officer he has a kilo of the shittier cocaine in his possession planted on years later.  
It's fucking unpleasant.  
He can't do it, when she sinks down onto him like a too-hot vice, can't let loose the generic swearing small talk he's heard in porn, because he'd sound like them, which she tells him she appreciates after, of all things. They're sober, she's his age, it's damn hard to fuck in a car but they manage, they manage until his hands claw into the hips he's been moving back and forward on him and her tits smother whatever embarrassing noise he probably makes as he comes.  
She doesn't.  
It's not hard to fix, he notes with an oddly competitive pride as her thighs clench desperately around his head.

\--

Prison teaches him how to fuck a woman, in an unexpected twist.  
It also introduces him to his first boss the next time he's in for the grand total of two weeks. It's easy to fall in with a gang of other Latinos, safe, comfortable both inside and outside of prison.

He really wishes he could endure safe.  
But safe is a cage, safe is a compactor crushing in and creating a nice neat little square, the kind you have to stay in until you're old and greying and boring, an accountant with a wife who doesn't feel any spark of love for you and a son who hates you and hates everything you stand for and goes off to become a fucking drug dealer just to prove you wrong and-  
Blood doesn't stay on leather long, and Nevada long ago learned to look small and unintimidating to get out of things he's blatantly done.  
"Drive by. Oh fuck, Dios mio, he's dying-"  
Drive by stabbings don't happen. His men pass it off as a trauma related slip, then forget about it- must force themselves to because no, the boss is crazy but he couldn't kill-

\--

He's 25 and owns the Heights by the time he decides he can take a bit of time to himself. Smokes a joint on top of the world, cars scurrying like tiny golden ants along the threads of road that knit the beautiful fabric of this city together as he decides that today is his birthday, the day he's reborn as himself, a day he can have to himself without that fucking garbage chocolate cake haunting him.

Finally, Nevada Ramirez is born.

...Jesus he's high, he smirks to himself and fumbles with his penthouse door as he lets himself back in.

**Author's Note:**

> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5297411 is the Jonas fic it was based on, go look, it's great! :D


End file.
